


Jeeves and The Man from America

by sherlocked221



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Jealousy, Love Confessions, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-15 11:39:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: When a certain man from America asks Bertie for some help with a crush of his, Bertie enlists his faithful manservant, Jeeves.However, Jeeves seems reluctant towards Mr Gatsby, and Bertie doesn't know why.





	1. 1: I'm Gatsby

**Author's Note:**

> Awful title XD

Staggering about, leaning on walls and using pretty much anything I can find to prop myself up on, I watch the world sway from side to side and decide that perhaps coming out tonight wasn’t my best idea. Least to say, I’m utterly lathered, completely tanked, and I’m not the only one. I’m just the only one that seems to have a particular difficulty in standing up.

But such is the tradition of the University boat night.

All my friends are here, though as the night has worn on, they have become less my friends and more blurry figures yelling slurred words of encouragement and bets that no one is taking. The whole place is a mess of well-dressed, respectable men becoming exactly what our Aunts and other overbearing family members so wished we would not. There is little doubt in my mind that we truly are drones, by nature as much as by name, members of the idle rich if ever there were any. We are appalling, terrible, shameful, but by Jove do we have fun.

I find a wall to prop myself up on, and there I decide to say, for though I am having fun, I am feeling just a little bit too above par. My head is swimming. I can’t help thinking, when my mind can take a bit of work, Jeeves will not be impressed. I am reminded of the morning I first met my good man. I was little more than a groaning mess, hapless in my frivolities, helpless on my own. Then, through the ear-splitting ring of my doorbell, came a man seemingly surrounded by light. The moment he strode into my home was the moment I was that man no more. I am now Bertram Wilberforce Wooster with his assistance.

And with the assistance of several strong glasses too many, I have become soppy. For fear that my condition may become apparent and I be forever likened to the Basset girl, Madeline, I think about making good my escape. That is, I will do so, when I am sure that the ground under me will not suddenly flip upwards to smack me in the face. It seems to threaten that with every step, hence why I’ve stopped moving. I’ll get my bearings and then I’ll get off. I doubt my friends will care, or even notice.

I try to see them through the ever shifting figures, every body thrown forth in much excitement, frustration and every other alcohol induced over-exaggeration of the normal sporting feelings one can feel while spectating. I think I catch sight of them, half dressed in their finest, half in a state of undress, with ties fastened around their heads, buttons undone. Good lord are they a sight! Most of them have overflowing, or half empty, glasses of whatever is being handed out and are clearly under the effects of it. They are red faced and sweating, even out in the cold, utterly taken by the event. I wish I still had their stamina, they’re ability for functioning where I am unable to. They look like they’ve had such fun.

And I’ve had my fill.

Right, time to try walking, Wooster. You know you’re capable of it. One foot, then the other, in some vague direction of my flat, or somewhere I can find a taxi. Just avoid the people running about who seem as coordinated as me- which is hardly at all. I’m not sure how far I get, but I knew it was coming. It’s no surprise when my toes catch the back of my heels, my legs faulted, my body falls forward. At least I’m so jugged I might not feel the hard smack of the floor catching me.

In fact, I don’t feel anything of the sort. I mean, I’m sure it’s going to hurt tomorrow, but I trust Jeeves will have some wonderful, secret remedy for injuries obtained while intoxicated. Another secret of the guild and all that.

“Are you alright, old sport?”

Having braced for the fall, my eyes had closed. I open them, and find I’m staring up into the face of a stranger. He smiles down at me, lips and eyes twinkling. It’s a smile that doesn’t seem to quite fit the occasion, having just watched me trip over my own feet. It’s too genuine for that. If this man were my friends, the smile would be a mocking one. But his beats down on me like a warm sun, doesn’t make me feel the fool that I am, or anything of the sort. It lifts my spirits, while his arms lift me up.

I suddenly realise I had not fallen to the floor at all. He had caught me, and carefully he draws me to my feet. Knowing they’re not entirely strong enough to hold up my weight, he winds a strong arm around my waist and chuckles lightly.

“Shall we find somewhere for you to sit?”

“I was just on my way home.” I slur at him.

“In your condition, Old Sport? You might need a moment to rest.”

“You’re American…”

There goes the filter between my mind and mouth. Now I don’t know what I’ll say.

The man isn’t fazed by my comment, most likely as it is not entirely out of the blue. In fact, it’s quite correct, quite observant of me to notice. He helps me towards another wall and helps me down onto the floor. In our smart suits, we sit on the street like a couple of delinquents. Jeeves will certainly not be pleased with the lack of respect I am affording my clothes. But despite the flack I’m sure I’ll get from him, I would rather like if he came to pick me up. Too bad I am in no position to find a telephone and give him a bell.

“I am American.” The man beside me says, “But I’m at Oxford right now. Only just arrived. Thought I might make the rounds at all the events. I must say, this is good fun. I heard this is an annual event. Do you come every year?”

“I try to. It’s something of a tradition for our club.”

“Club?”

“Gentleman’s club,” I try to explain, though my speech is worse that Gussie Finknottle’s at the moment, “The Drones. Me, Boko Fittleworth, Beefy Bingham, Oofy, Tuppy and so forth. Oh, and there’s Bingo too, but he’s in the country at the moment, chasing after some girl… he’s like that is old Bingo, but most of the poor chumps are.”

“They are.” He agrees, before adding, “But we’re all guilty of it.”

“Oh, rather.”

Now, as I’m not having to focus my waning attention span on walking, my mind stops swimming so much and I give this man a G. He’s dressed in a vibrant coloured suit, something Jeeves wouldn’t approve of, though I would be remise to say he does not look good in it. He also wears a bow tie. His fair hair is combed towards the right side of his head, with brown and caramel streaks running through it. And he’s still smiling. Every time I meet his gaze, an never faltering, believing smile crosses his lips and lights up his eyes. It’s almost as though, when he smiles, I know exactly who he’s smiling at, as though it’s just for me, that we’re the only people here, I’m the only person he can see. It’s mesmerising, like the lamps which light the street, like the dancing flames of a fire.

And now I’m sounding like my friend Rocky Rockmetteller, the poet. I am certainly no poet. If you’re looking for a man with a way with words, you need only look to the man usually at my side. I cannot say that my vocabulary would be half as good had I not picked up on the wonderful way in which Jeeves speaks.

Look at me, singing my manservant’s praises like a man smitten. Some would say that Jeeves is a humble man, but I know better. To his face, I’ll only dare say certain things, lest I allow that intelligent head of his to grow. I do not want him to believe that every man in his vicinity is a pawn in his many schemes, or that his many schemes are destined to work. But at times, I do have the habit of letting a praise or two in gratitude escape my mouth when he has done a particularly good job of digging me out of whatever hole I’d been shoved into.

But I can think these things while I’m alone, can’t I? Think of what a mess I am without him.

“Are you alright, old Sport? You’re just looking a bit green.” The voice from beside me sounds again. I lift my head and try to reciprocate his smile, though I think it comes out a bit more twisted than I meant.

“I’m spiffing.”

“Would you like me to call you a car?”

Though that is pretty much all I want at this moment, I shake my head. The Wooster’s code dictates that Woosters should not allow others to go out of their ways to help them. I know I can get home. It merely depends on when. It might take me a bit of time.

“Nonsense.” The man says, “It’ll take no time at all.”

I realise I don’t have the words to tell him otherwise. He insists, as he draws himself collectedly up, and weaves his way effortlessly through the crowd. I keep sight of him, since the light coloured suit stands out amongst all the grey pinstripes, black tails and white shirts. He stands out until he slips inside a building. Then I am left alone, to my own devises, wondering if I should save him the trouble and leave while he is gone, or let him do what he seems to want to.

The answer is decided when I attempt to heave myself onto my feet. Either my arms haven’t the strength to push me up or my legs have turned to jelly and cannot take my weight at all now. I must accept the man’s help.

The man, who I do not know the name of. The man who I can’t imagine is even a little bit above par. He’s too coordinated for that. And he speaks with the eloquence of a man who has the mental faculty to choose his words carefully and well. The man that, if my suspicions in that regard are correct, can have as much fun as any of us utterly sober. I can only imagine what we must look like to a man in his right mind.

It takes a short while for him to return, by which time I’ve set about readjusting my tie and ensuring all the buttons on my shirt are done up. I want to look half respectable upon returning, else I really upset Jeeves.

The man helps me to my feet and starts straightening my tie for me.

“Home to the wife?” He asks casually.

“No, no.” I hum back, “That is to say, no wife.”

“A handsome man like you?” he sounds shocked, “No wife? Are you sure you’ll be quite alright getting home?”

I nod, and go to take a step forward. That was… clearly a mistake. Once again, the man has to catch me. This time, however, instead of taking me somewhere I can sit down or press against to remain upright, he keeps an arm around me. He tells me we should go around the corner.

“That’s where the car will meet you.”

“Right ho.”

Using him as a crutch, we hobble into the quieter street behind the rabble of the boat race. I am a little wary of him now that we are alone together, and I am less than 100%. I know of stories in which drunk men are robbed or stolen from by good Samaritans. I keep an arm close to the wallet in my pocket, and an eye on my pocket watch, which is worth enough to be taken. However, the man’s hand stays firmly on my side, while the other holds the wrist of my arm that is hooked over his shoulders. He’s hunched over slightly, hardly in a comfortable position, and yet he looks as content as he had when we were sitting on the floor together. He turns his head towards me with quite an unremarkable gaze, and opens his mouth.

“You know, old sport, I haven’t asked your name. Frightfully wrong of me. What must you think?”

“No matter,” I say, waving it off with a limp hand, “Bertram Wooster.” I then extend the same hand to him, “And you?”

He takes it.

“Gatsby. Jay Gatsby.”

“You should come to the Drones tomorrow. Lunch on me, to thank you.”

“No really,” He chuckles, “I don’t need thanks.”

“Let me.”

A burning light travels down the road, as bright as Jay’s smile. It’s blinding, actually, and not kind on what is already a throbbing headache. But it’s my car. Kindly, Jay helps me into it, and asks me my address so he can tell the driver, saving me the humiliation of having the man know just how jugged I am. Then we’re away.

I peer back to the street before we turn away from it. Jay stands there, watching the car. He holds his hands behind his back and smiles. When he’s sure I’m gone, he bows his head and begins to walk, not in the direction of the frivolities, but away from them. Perhaps he too has had enough. Perhaps he too is heading home. He may have more luck than me in getting there.


	2. 1.5: American, Sir?

I wake up to the headache-inducing sound of my pillow and bed linin shuffling beneath me. I turn around onto my front and bury my head under one of my pillows, trying to alleviate the pounding feeling in it. Where is Jeeves? Why hasn’t he woken me up? And why hasn’t he brought me his lifesaving remedy?

I dare open an eye, and regret it almost instantly. The sharp, early morning light pries into my room, and into my head. I close it again, after taking a quick look at my clock.

7? Have I gone around the bend? After exhausting and drowning myself in alcohol last night, I should’ve slept until midday. But with the feeling of the heel of a shoe pounding down on my temples, I doubt I’m going to drift off again. And I can’t get up. I know that is more pain than it’s worth.

Drawing air into my lungs, I resolve to call my man, “Jeeves.”

My voice is broken, and full of fatigue. It hardly carries. But before I know it, I hear the sound of my bedroom door sweeping open, and his soft footsteps wandering in.

I can’t even bear to roll onto my back and face him. I can only imagine what I look like.

“I hate to be a pain, Jeeves, but you couldn’t mix up your little after-night concoction for me, could you?”

“Very good, sir.”

Something I can never understand about my man is that he manages to adapt his voice to the moment, without it sounded too different. And I mean volume. Tone, on the other hand, changes often. He likes to tell me, without telling me, how he feels about a certain subject, and I know. I know that when he says ‘indeed sir,’ that doesn’t always mean he agrees with me. Similarly, when I insist upon following through with a plan, he lets me know whether he believes it will work with a simple, ‘Very good, sir.’

But his volume never seems to raise or fall, and yet it is never too loud, nor too soft. It carries itself to my ear, and that is all. His voice does not aggravate my headache. Instead it seems to soothe it, perhaps with the unspoken promise that he’ll take the pain away.

While he makes his mixture, I manage to drift off. I sleep through the clinking of glasses, the clanging of cutlery and all that. Before I know it, I’m being drawn up by its peculiar, but desirable smell, and practically drinking it out of Jeeves’ hands.

“Good night, Sir?”

“An interesting one, Jeeves, I’m sure. If I could jolly well remember any of it. All I can remember is this man who helped me into a taxi. Did I have all my things on me when I returned last night?”

His brow furrows, “I believe so, Sir, but I shall check again. Was there something undesirable about him?”

Now that I can, I shake my head. Whatever the stuff Jeeves makes is, it works dashed quickly.

“Not so undesirable. Just rummy. I doubt you’d approve of him. Oxford chap, I think he said. But he’s American.”

I don’t think I’m explaining myself all that well. Jeeves gives me the rummiest look.

“American, sir? May I inquire of his name?”

“Er, Gatsby… I think. Why?”

“A Mr Jay Gatsby phoned this morning. He informed me that you had invited him to the Drones this luncheon, but did not inform him of the address.”

I laugh, “Well, I was a little out of it.”

“Indeed Sir.

“Did you tell him?”

“I did, Sir.”

“Alright then. I did say lunch, didn’t I? I’ll only have a small breakfast then, if you wouldn’t mind, after I’ve had a little sleep in. You’ll wake me at ten?”

“Very good, Sir.”

And, just as he promised, he does so, wakes me up with eggs and b. The smell alone is enough to bring me willingly from my sleep. I’ve had my fill of it, and now I’m ready for my fill of a good fry up.


	3. 2: Lunch with Mr Gatsby

The day is warm and sunny. It’s not summery. There isn’t a particular glow to everything, which you might expect in the summer months, but it has a certain whatsit, a kind of optimism that is more spring-like, I’d say. There’s a thingness in the air. I like it. I think, after lunch, I might hazard a stroll. I haven’t just gone on a walk in quite some time, and I’ve got to say, this little wander over to the Drones has been a pleasant one so far. I’ve always enjoyed walking around London town.

The only trouble with this particular trip is the risk that a calm moment to myself can so easily be disturbed by people I could run into on the way. I mean those fellow Drones who make the same tracks over to our club, my friends, who I would’ve been glad to see had it been the day after any other night. But after last night, all that I could expect from them was a bit of brotherly teasing.

“What ho Bertie? Couldn’t quite handle it last night, eh?”

And so the it begins.

“What ho Boko, old fruit.”

As the usush, the Fittleworth younger is dressed as though he’s just rolled out of his bed, clad still in the outfit he’d worn the night before if I’m not mistaken, and toddled over here to leach lunch off some poor unsuspecting friend. He and Oofy both accost me along the stretch of road, smirks and smiles galore.

“You abysmal thing, Bertie. You’ve gone soft on us.” Oofy chuckles, “We saw you stumbling about the place with that character from Oxford. Don’t tell us you made a particularly large bet on their side, did you?”

The slender figure of the chap leans towards me, hopeful. Though he may be the richest of the Drones, that doesn’t stop him from entertaining the possibility of another member coming into some money, and possibly offering to buy lunch. Boko, of course, is similarly hopeful at the idea. Lunch on Bertram? Capital idea for everyone who isn’t Bertram.

I shake my head, “Alas, I was too lathered to. I assume they won, then?”

“And I heard they weren’t even the favourite this year.” Boko says solemnly. I think I can guess which way he bet.

“You should stop listening to people.” Oofy, quite rightly, chides him. The poor chap hangs his head, giving Oofy a biting glance out the corner of his dark eyes.

Well, least to say, I’m surprised they can remember any of last night. I was utterly boiled and didn’t drink half as much as them. Perhaps I _have_ gone soft.

I follow them into the club. The familiar smell of old oak and burning- I really hope that’s from the fireplace and nothing else- hits me as we squeeze through the doors together, as does the voices of many friends. I’m surprised so many of them have made it down here today. Practically all of them were out last night, a lot later than me, and yet they’re up to their usual antics in the main room, if the noise is anything to go by.

Since I’m waiting for someone, I decide not to go and join the games right away. I haven’t had a gasper yet today.

Stupidly, I bring out my cigarette case while still in the company of friends. Before I can even regard how many I have left, hands dive in and take one each. A duet of ‘thank you Bertie’ rings out and, before I know it, my chums have melted away into the main room, leaving me standing in the reception with one cigarette left. Now I have to decide whether to waste my last now, or bare the urge to satisfy a greater one later. I sigh. I was looking forward to a quick smoke before lunch.

But it seems I wouldn’t have had the time anyway. I didn’t need to wait any time at all until I hear a voice behind me, distinctly American. I turn to see Gatsby in a pink suit, leaping up the steps and bounding through the doors with that smile on his face.  The sun follows him in, painting a golden path under his feet. As though we’re old acquaintances, he fondly slaps me on the back and regards the building he’d just walked into with a sweeping gaze.

“Ah Bertie! I hoped I’d got the right place.”

His blue eyes then fall to the open cigarette case held limply in my hand. I hadn’t thought to stuff it away in my pocket. I was a little bit startled by his sudden appearance to consider the helpless look of me standing about like a beggar with a particular habit for smoking.

Casually, the man pulls his own glinting golden case out of the pocket of his waistcoat and offers me one, saying, before I can turn him down, “You shouldn’t smoke that rubbish, Old sport.” He reaches out and physically closes my case, “Try this.”

Given no other choice, and desperate for one, I take one. He pops one of his own into his mouth and lights them both up, first mine, then his. I don’t see any difference in the gasper. I half think he was merely giving me an excuse not to waste my own, without it having to seem like charity. Good man. A lot kinder than some of my so-called friends.

“So, lunch hall?” He asks. It takes me a moment to realise what he means.

“Oh, yes, yes, sorry.” I gesture to the second door on the right, and almost immediately, as though he knows exactly where he is heading, he strides towards it. He walks into the reasonably empty room and chooses a table near the back. I find myself following.

It’s strange, because I only met this man yesterday, and in all honestly, I don’t quite remember it. I remember him wearing something quite ghastly coloured, yet looking quite smart. I recall the feeling of his arms under me, his strength as he pushed me to my feet. I remember snippets of our conversation, and the sparkling of his smile, the gaps of which are filled in for me as he smiles at me now. Yes, there is a distinctive twinkling in his eyes and the way his lips catch the light. He seems like quite the catch, really, and yet I notice no ring on his finger. Perhaps he is a man after my own fashion.

But honestly, I don’t know him, and yet he is acting as though we are good friends, like he has frequented the Drones before. I admire his confidence. In his situation, I would be a lot more… well, like I am now. Quiet, shy, awkward. A bit of a mess. He seems a lot more comfortable here than I am, and this is basically my second home.

“So, what is good here?” He asks.

“Oh, food wise?” I ramble. “Well, I’d say everything, but I’ve learnt what to avoid on which days and so forth.” I chuckle. He chuckles too.

“Well then, I’ll trust your judgment. I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Right ho…”

That is all well and good, but I haven’t even decided what I’m going to have yet. I don’t know what I feel like. It seems that, in his company, there’s a little pressure on me to impress. I don’t know why. I mean, like I’ve mentioned, I don’t know this man. I have no reason to want to impress him, other than I’d like to give a good impression to such a seemingly generous and up-standing kind of person. He seems decent enough to warrant a decent impression of myself.

The only trouble is, giving off a good impression is easier said than done. No matter how hard I try, and believe you me, there are some people who I have tried my hardest to impress, I always seem to come off the same. Foolish, ignorant, sometimes even a candidate for the happy pill clinic.

That does not mean I will not try.

“So…” I hum, trying to remember how to begin a bout of small talk, “How are you enjoying the metrop?”

He gives me a look, a smile with a creased brow. It seems I didn’t remember properly. I forget that, to others, I don’t make a whole lot of sense. I was merely deceived by the friendly atmosphere between us, the feeling that we’ve known each other longer than we have.

“That is to say, how long have you been in London?”

“Oh,” he laughs, “Oh not long. But it is a nice city. The people are proving friendly.”

“I’m glad.” I say, just as one of the employees ankle around to us. I order a starter and main and look to Gatsby for approval. He seems quite happy with my choice, so I go to order a bottle of wine to go with it.

“Not for me, old sport.” He tells the staff. He then meets my slightly confused gaze, “I had too much to drink last night. Best I hold back this morning.”

“Oh, right ho.” I decide on having some wine myself, in that case, then turn back to the conversation, “Well, I’ve always said the same thing about America. Friendly people. I’ve always had a lot of fun over there.”

“Ah so you’ve visited our great continent?”

“Yes. I trickle out to New York when I can.”

“Well, I’ve been looking at a place not too far from there. Long Island.”

My mind immediately jumps to the nights I spent at Rocky’s place in Long island. The sleepless nights and… to put it mildly, less than exciting days. Therefore, my image of the place is limited to that. Gatsby doesn’t really fit the type I’d expect to retire there for the early evenings and late mornings. It’s the kind of place you’d go if you didn’t want to dress up every day, or go out much for dinner. And, though I know I should not judge, I can’t help looking at Gatsby’s suit, his slicked back hair, and thinking he might quite enjoy the chores of making himself look presentable to go out.

“I’ve got a friend in Long Island.” I say, “Rocky. He’s a poet.”

“Any good?”

Our drinks arrive. I immediately take a sip of mine.

“I think so. I don’t know where he gets his ideas though. I probably should, of course. He seems to be writing all the time, and out loud. It’s like you can hear his thought process.”

He laughs again.

“Sounds like a nice chap.”

For a while, as we wait for our food, and while we’re eating it once it comes, the conversation doesn’t seem to be heading anywhere. I guess there is a reason for that. I didn’t exactly have a reason for inviting him here. I hardly remember even doing so. It was just a thing to be said in the moment, a faltering of the mind when trying to be civil, and seem normal. Well, so much for that.

And yet, I get the feeling that perhaps there is a reason he agreed to come here. When our conversation dies down, as it does so several times, there’s a look in his eyes. It’s almost like he avoids my gaze, but wants to meet it at the same time. His mouth opens and closes, as though he can’t decide on what to say. And, perhaps like a fool, I end up thinking of another question to fill the space, rather than letting him say what he wishes to. As soon as the thought comes to mind to speak, I’ve spoken for him.

It takes a while before I hit upon the very subject it seems he wants to talk about.

“So, moving back across the waters, are you?”

“Eventually.”

“Once you’ve finished your studies?”

He smiles broadly at that and answers a little more mutedly, “I suspect so.”

I nod, expecting more than that, but nothing more comes, so I continue.

“Got family over there?”

“No. Not anymore. I can’t be too sad, of course. I wouldn’t be living so comfortably if I did.”

In a way, I share that sentiment. At least neither he nor I have to answer to anyone in the way we spend our money. Perhaps he really is quite similar to me.

“No pretty young prune at your arm or anything?”

“A wife?” He looks down at his lap, his smile faltering some, “No.”

“No girl at all?”

He shakes his head, then seems to retract it. He takes in a long breath and meets my gaze.

“There is someone. An old friend of mine. But she’s…”

“Say no more,” I tell him, recalling something he said to me last night, by some miracle, “We’re all guilty of it. Can’t tell her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then allow me to put the problem to my man Jeeves. Many a time he has been called a lifesaver, a marvel and whatsit. And I tell you, if you have trouble with ladies, there is no one better to assist you than him.”

“Jeeves?” he says, cocking his head to the side a little, “Your man?”

“My valet. And friend, but he’d never admit it.” I giggle. I doubt that is true, honestly. I’m sure Jeeves knows that I consider him a friend, and the only thing keeping him from considering me the same would be his professionalism, a boundary he often oversteps when it suits him. “I tell you now, put your problem to him, and he’ll give you a cunning plan to put the wool over on this girl, if that’s what I mean.”

He gives me a slightly odd look, but that fades into relief. I tell him we could stop by my rooms after lunch, and he thanks me.


	4. 2.5: One Rummy Man

 

“Jeeves?” Gatsby and I wander into a seemingly empty flat. But I know better than to assume that, because things are quiet, no one is home. Jeeves is as quiet as a mouse, as stealthy as a ghost. His footfalls are as light as a feather, similar to his touch.

I go to shed my blazer. The walk here has made me too hot. Gatsby, in Jeeves’ absence, helps me remove it, and when the pocket watch in the pocket of my waistcoat, he picks it back up and takes it upon himself to tuck it back in.

“Thank you…” I mutter, trying not to find the over-helpfulness too odd.

I then try not to jump when I hear someone clear their throat. Jeeves appears in the doorway of his bedroom, dressed without his jacket.

“Ah, Jeeves.”

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

His eyes dart over to the man standing just an inch in front of me.

“This is Mr Gatsby.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Gatsby.” He nods slightly. He is his usual polite self, though I thought for a moment I detected a certain coolness in his voice. No, Jeeves would never. Rarely is he one to judge a character before being well enough acquainted with them.

Gatsby shifts slightly and turns his head towards me. Ah yes, now I remember what we’re doing here.

Casually, I step further into my home and take a seat, “So, Jeeves, you may be wondering why I’m back from lunch so early.”

“I’m agog to learn, Sir.” Jeeves says. I watch as he walks over to Gatsby and takes my jacket from him. He offers to take Gatsby’s too, but the man politely rejects him.

“I won’t stay long.” He says quietly.

“Well, I thought you might be able to help Mr Gatsby. He’s got some trouble with the girl of his affections, and since you’re dashed good at that sort of thing…”

“I wouldn’t say that, sir.”

“Oh come now Jeeves.” I chuckle, as Gatsby joins me in sitting down. He takes the armchair angled towards me. Jeeves, after laying my jacket on my bed, return to the room and takes his place standing before us both. “You’re just being modest. There’s no need. I’ve already told Gatsby of your miracles.”

Once again, Jeeves clears his throat. He then listens to Gatsby tell his story, his story about a girl called Daisy, who was a gorgeous blond debutante he had been acquainted with. He told of his wish to marry her, but due to a lack of status and money, he had no hope. I thought perhaps he could gift her parents a copy of those Rosie M Banks novels Jeeves was so fond of, but apparently my man had a better idea than that.

“Am I correct in thinking you have money now, Mr Gatsby?”

He coughs before answering, “Yes. Like I told Bertie, I have my inheritance.”

I’m sure I see Jeeves’ eyes narrowing at him, which is very unlike my man, but I could be wrong. When I blink, he looks totally normal, talking effortlessly and helpfully.

“If I am not mistaken, it should only be a matter of presenting to the young lady that you have the money and therefore the status of a man who could keep her in good stead. That is, if you wish to marry her.”

“Of course I do!” Gatsby says, quite hastily. He almost sounds hurt.

And Jeeves seems to know why. He doesn’t question it. He doesn’t say anything in fact. It’s merely the way he apologises and continues, nonchalantly.

“Forgive me. I would merely suggest that you ensure she can see your wealth, if stability and comfort are the only two factors preventing the relationship from progressing.”

That seems to satisfy him. He leaves all smiles, thanking me again and again, no matter how many times I insist I had done nothing. He promises to be in touch soon, as he leaps out the door. Well, I would say that’s one new friend made and one friend made happy. There’s few things better than that.

I sigh to myself, and smile up at Jeeves. However, he does not reciprocate. I was not expecting him to smile, that’s not really something he would do. But I was not expecting the look of distain in his eyes as he goes to walk away. I stop him.

“Say Jeeves, what was all that about ‘if you want to marry her.’ You seemed to upset him.” I point out.

Seemingly reluctant to answer, my man sways on his feet, back and forth, and clasps his hands behind his back.

“I did not mean to, Sir. However, I understand your sentiment about him being rather abnormal.”

“Oh I didn’t mean that.” I insist. I felt bad for saying such a thing now. “He seems perfectly nice.”

“He seems quite close to you.” Jeeves says. I’m not sure how he means it.

“Well…”

“For a man you met last night.”

“He’s just friendly. Very generous. This isn’t like you, old thing. Being all judgmental.”

Defensively, Jeeves stands up straight, his lips pressing into a white line. He lifts his head slightly and insists, “I was not passing judgement.”

“It’s alright. Perhaps I should be wary of him. I trust your judgement.” I decide. Rarely has Jeeves ever steered me wrong, and when he has, its been either to help me, or for a good cause. He purses his lips, as though to prevent himself from saying more, and goes about his business.

How rummy. Still, no matter. I have the rest of the day to myself, and I’m glad for it. Perhaps I’ll think up some way to put old Jeeves in a better mood. I’ll drag him to a book shop or something. Hm.


	5. 3: Do you not like Gatsby?

I thought I heard the doorbell ring, but I’d yet to wake up, so I dismiss the idea. Who would turn up at my doorstep this early?

There are answers to that question, and most of them begin with ‘Aunt’ something or other. I bally well hope I’m not right. Still, I could’ve just dreamt it. If so, I wonder who was hoping to pry themselves into my unconscious. A pretty dish? Had I woken up just at the wrong moment? Dash it!

I roll onto my back and slowly open my eyes. Thankfully, the room remains dark, kind on the old lookers. Jeeves has yet to draw the curtains or turn on the light. But he is up. I know that. Not only because he _always_ wakes up earlier than me, but because I can see light seeping in through the gap under the door. The living room is full of light. Natural, morning light. I even watch as it becomes blocked as something passes my door. I’d say that is my man, going about his business.

It’s a little while longer until he dares to enter my room. I’ve drifted in and out of sleep, waking up in my own time, which means I’m in a pretty good old mood by the time I hear his footsteps striding to my side.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Good morning, Jeeves.”

I push myself up out of the blankets and sit up with pillows piled behind my head. Rarely am I so happy to wake up. I smile at Jeeves as flicks on my bedside table light, which emits a warm orange glow that illuminates his face.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t reciprocate my optimism. 

Not that he looks particularly angry or upset. He instead is void of much emotion, the look in his eyes cold. He clears some stuff from the table beside me, and without saying much more to me, goes to leg it out the door. I would’ve stopped him, had he not stopped himself. He turns just shy of the door and coldly informs me, “Mr Gatsby for you.”

“He’s here?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Before I can ask another question, he’s gone, leaving me without the usual promise of breakfast, the anticipation of my morning tea, or the assurance that he’ll be back in to help me dress. Without that, I don’t really know what to do. Get up?

All right then.

Since I’m more awake this morning than I usually am, it doesn’t take me all that long to heave myself out of bed and walk to the wardrobe. Without Jeeves’ advice, however, I’m sort of lost as to what I should wear. Usually he gives me a run-down of the weather, the feel of the morning, to assist me in making appropriate wardrobe choices, if he does not flat out decide what I should wear the night before based on plans or activities I’d made.

Well, since I’ve not had breakfast yet, and I’d much prefer to take it in bed, perhaps I could pop a dressing gown on, see what Gatsby wants, and either return to my room for the first meal of the day, or get properly dressed. Gatsby surely won’t mind, and I’m hardly embarrassed to greet friends less than properly clad. I swing on my gown and head towards the door.

“Sir?”

Just as I’m about to leave, Jeeves enters, carrying a tray. On it is a steaming pot of tea, which smells lovely, but is hurriedly moved it out of my way, to prevent it becoming the fashion choice of the day- I would prefer to drink it than wear it. Quickly, I take a couple of steps back.

“Good Lord, I am sorry.” I say, chirpily. I hope to instil some kind of good feeling in him today, which he seems to be lacking, but that doesn’t seem to do it. I watch as his gaze falls down to my feet and rises again, with an expression I don’t recognise.

“You’re going to address Mr Gatsby in a state of undress?” His voice seems to match his face. It’s low and careful, despite the closed door between us and the man sitting in my living room. He must really not want Gatsby to hear this.

I look down at myself, “I am hardly going out there baring all, by Jove.”

Response, he visibly grinds his teeth. This really isn’t like him. It’s unsettling to see him so out of character.

I can’t help walking towards him and adopting a similar, low tone as I ask, “Is everything alright, old chap? You seem out of sorts.”

“I shall be better directly.” He replies, but still coldly.

“Rot, Jeeves. That is to say, utter rot. Something’s got under your skin. Since yesterday you’ve been nothing but…”

“Mr Gatsby is waiting, Sir.” He cuts me off, “Will you take your tea in the living room?” I probably would be a little bit put off, if it was any other man. I mean, if my chums had interrupted me while I was showing concern for them, that would get them a biff on the nose. But when Jeeves does it, it only adds to the concern. He’s never like this.

He turns to take the tray into the next room, but I can’t let him go. Not like this. I grasp the wrist of his free hand and tug him back. The jolt causes the tray to lose its balance and Jeeves hurriedly wrestles to gain it back, stifling a frustrated gasp as he does so. Even that is unlike him. Never have I seen him frustrated, angry, truly upset, and I half feel as though I’m seeing every bally one of those in one go.

Which is why I feel I must ask, “Have I upset you?”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. At first, he can’t meet my gaze. He looks distracted, bothered. Then, when he does, he looks apologetic.

“No, Sir.”

“Are you sure? I hope you know that I may be your employer, but I consider you as great a friend as any. If I’ve done something, I should like to know.”

The man hangs his head, before insisting, “You have done nothing, Sir.”

And with that, I let him leave. I hope he’s telling me the truth. I’d hate to think _I’d_ done something to set his nose out of joint. I doubt it, though. If I had, I wouldn’t be questioning it. He’d make sure I knew.

Still, I don’t want to upset him any further. I take the time to get on a shirt and a pair of trousers, and even bother to fold my pyjamas and pile them on the bed so he has less work to do. I mean, he may refold them- my skills in that department are quite lacking, and he likes things the way he does them- but at least he’ll see that I’m trying to help, or make it up to him, if I have done something to cause this personality shift. I also slip on a pair of socks and shoes, before heading out into the living room.

The figure of Gatsby, with his smile ever as sunny, if not more, as the… well sun, stands by my piano, hands clasped behind his back, a casual whatsit to him. Today, his outfit is a little more kind on the eyes, a simple grey tweed jacket and trousers. It seems he can pull of any look.

In seeing me trickle out of my room, his smile widens.

“Hello, Old Sport.”

“What ho!”

“Sorry to come so early. I didn’t know you were still in bed.” He says kindly. I wave him off.

“No no, it’s no problem.” I insist, as I glimpse a folded newspaper on the table. I pick it up. Ah yes, it is today’s. I’ll have a quick G. “Is everything alright, old thing?”

I hear Jeeves wander into the room. He walks between Gatsby and I, and heads into my bedroom. Strange path that, since walking behind me would be easier, but who am I to judge a man’s choice of journey. A moment later, he returns with the tea tray, sets it in the living room and starts pouring me a cuppa.

“Jeeves,” I utter, before Gatsby can reply, “I say, how about a cup for our guest here?”

Jeeves stands up and purses his lips. He doesn’t even give one of his verbal agreements that he’s so fond of, complete with an added ‘sir’ at the end. He just quietly stalks off into the kitchen, ignoring Gatsby’s polite, “Oh please, no. Don’t go to any trouble.”

“I insist.” I say, “So what brings you here this morning?”

It takes a moment before he replies. He seems bothered by Jeeves now. I can’t say I blame him.

“Oh nothing really, Old Sport. I just wanted to invite you to dinner at mine. Would 7 O’clock be all right?”

“Dinner?” I parrot.

“To say thank you. To you both.” He gives Jeeves a G, but doesn’t catch his eye. My man comes back in with a second cup and saucer. He fills both the cups with hot water and, with a delicate touch, drops in the tea. He then finishes my drink first, as he knows how I like it, and hands it to me. I take a sip. Ah yes, perfect as ever. I’ve always said that a good day begins with a good tea.

“Oh balderdash,” I say between sips, “You have nothing to be thankful for. Just one chap helping out another, what.”

Jeeves then looks half expectantly up at Gatsby. At first, the guest doesn’t seem to know why. What had him averting his gaze, now locking onto it? Well, he’s wondering how he’d like his tea. Why he doesn’t just ask, I’ve no idea.

“Oh, just milk for me. Still, I’d like to have you to dinner. I confess I don’t know too many people over here, and I’m bored of dining on my own.”

“What about your Oxford friends?”

He smiles mutedly.

“Honestly old sport, I don’t have many of those.”

An upstanding young thing like him? No friends? I pity him. And can’t understand it. Well, I cannot let him dine again on his own, or think that he really has no friends in this country. We are, as he’s said before, a country of friendly people, and I’ll not have a few mean young blots ruining it for someone across the pond. No, I agree to the dinner. He looks quite pleased as he takes his tea and stands at the window, eyeing the street it looks out on.

“We’ll drive down later.” I tell him, “Do you need a lift back?”

“No no.” Gatsby insists, waving his free hand casually, “I have a car. You should come down a little early so we might take a walk before we eat. You’ll love the grounds nearby.”

“Oh rather.”

“There’s a pool I’ve always been meaning to try. You must come and try it with me some time.”

I think I hear Jeeves’ clearing his throat in the next room.  

“Spiffing idea!” I say. No that time I definitely hear Jeeves cough.

“Anyway,” Gatsby takes a last mouthful of tea and sets it down on the table, “I do have to be getting off.”

“Right ho.”

We both walk to the door, and I extend my hand to him. He shakes it, beaming brightly at me. That smile… I’ve never seen one like it. It’s infectious, I realise. As I close the door behind him, I regard my rooms and realise I’m also smiling. It’s only sad that Jeeves is seems immune to it.

He walks in without acknowledging me, or the lack of a third person in the room. He swipes Gatsby’s cup off the table, as well as the tray and tea pot and strides back into the kitchen. He walks in and out like a train on tracks, unswerving from them, and positively ignores me. It’s only when I place myself directly in his path does he say a word to me.

“Breakfast, Sir?”

“Yes, yes. I say Jeeves…”

“Yes Sir?”

“Do you not like Gatsby?”


	6. 3.5: Who is Gatsby?

 

I have been out. I thought it might be best to give my good manservant some space. In all honesty, I have mixed feelings about returning. In a way, I want to. I didn’t really want to go out. I wanted to know what was going on with him, what had got him all a twitter. I wanted to stay to find out, to keep him company in case that was what he needed.

And yet now that I’m out, I also don’t really want to return. I don’t want to get it in the neck from Jeeves. I hate not knowing what has got him like this, and that is a motive both to stay, and to stay away.

Anyway, I’ve decided to biff back there to get ready for dinner. I think I’ll give Jeeves the night off. I can drive down to Gatsby’s on my own. If he really doesn’t like the man, it will give him an excuse not to be forced in the same room as him. If he isn’t feeling quite on par, it’ll give him more time alone. And if I’ve done something to upset him, which he assured once again was not the case, it is another way to make it up to him.

He was being rummy earlier when I asked him for his opinion on Gatsby. I know I already have, and he confessed his wariness of the man, but he did not seem so… cold in his presence before. And this time, he refused to say anything, telling me only that it was wrong of him to pass judgement on my friends. He’d help them, if that was what I wanted, but that was as far as he went.

Well, I said that was fair enough. What more can a man say? Though I know him better than to believe he would _never_ pass judgement on a person, I couldn’t dispute it. I thought better than to provoke him.

Back at my flat, he opens the door to me. His darkened expressions have brightened. He almost smiles at me.

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

“What ho, Jeeves.” I say as I walk in. I hand him my hat and cane and plop myself down in my arm chair, “Look old thing, what say you take the night off? I’ll drive down to Gatsby’s-”

He turns around- he had been putting my things away in the cupboard by the front door- abruptly and cuts me off once again, “I’d rather not, Sir.”

Rummy.

“What do you mean ‘you’d rather not?’ Not take the night off? It might be good for you.”

“I’d rather accompany you to Mr Gatsby’s home.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

“But you don’t like Mr Gatsby.” I point out. He bows his head and shakes it once.

“I do not believe I expressed any feeling of the sort, Sir. I instead think it would be best you not go there alone.”

“You still don’t trust him?”

He grinds his teeth.

“No, Sir.”

“Jeeves, you can understand why I’m a little bit curious about all this. You clearly have some problem with the blighter, but you won’t tell me why?”

“I did some digging, Sir, in regards to Mr Gatsby, merely due to the discomfort you felt upon first meeting him, and I did find that he has lied to you.”

“Lied to me?”

One doesn’t like to think oneself naive. I cannot expect every man to tell me all the truth all the time. Least of all when I myself have a particular knack for telling a white lie here and there. But that does not mean that when I find someone has been lying to me, it does not leave me with a nasty taste in my mouth.

“I do not think he comes from money, Sir. There are some whispers suggesting that he made his fortune by illicit means. It also appears that he plans to move back to Long Island in the summer.”

“This summer?” I recall a conversation we had in which he told me he wished to move back there once he’d finished his studies. Actually, I recall he was a little off about it. Perhaps there is some truth to what Jeeves is saying.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And where did you hear of it?”

“The information stems from a man in his employ, a butler.”

I mull the idea over in my head. I mean, it seems possible. Not every man I run into is a good one, no matter how he may seem. I like to think I am something of the opposite. I seem worse than I am.

“Good Lord…! And you don’t think I should attend tonight?” I ask. Jeeves shakes his head.

“I would not suggest that you cancel that engagement, I would just like to accompany you.”

“All right, Jeeves. Stay close, what? I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

At that, I’m sure I see the shine of a smile in his eyes.

“Indeed, Sir.”


	7. 4: Something's Rummy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how good this chapter is, to be honest. Trying to keep things subtle, but still there, is hard.

 

Jeeves is a brilliant man. I am first, as I’ve said before, to sing his praises, and he is not without a plethora of people who would line up to do so. But Good Lord, I so wished he’d not told me his concerns about Gatsby before we turned up at his place. It may have been, in a way, my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed him for the reason behind his insistence on accompanying me here, but I was curious. He was acting strange, and I’ve known him for long enough to recognise when he’s not himself.

Not that it’s changed all that much. He was perfectly cheery in the car, offering to drive me there and listening to my drivel on the way. He gave me some valuable advice about another matter- Bingo and this girl that my Aunt Dalia knows, a relationship that I have to either split up or keep together, depending on whose side I take- and offered some reassuring words about how I’m actually a good friend, despite what some of my chums would say in moments of rage or disappointment.

Then, as soon as we walked up the path and knocked on the door of Gatsby’s rooms, my Valet fell silent. His mouth pressed into a hard line and he became the silent figure he often pretended to be, but was really not. You know, he pretends he’s merely my subordinate, a man who only does his job, when he actually steps out of line a lot of the time, in my best interests, or my friend’s best interests, but steps out of line non the less. In fact, he doesn’t even pretend all that well. And yet suddenly, he becomes that subordinate, a quiet man who skulks in the shadows and keeps his voice down.

Meanwhile, I’m reading lies into everything Gatsby says now. I can’t help it. He tells me about some painting in the corridor leading up to his main room, and I don’t believe a word he says. He offers me a cigarette and tells me where he bought them from, and I feel like demanding proof. He tells me about his girl, Daisy, and I wonder if there even is any girl.

That is until he hands me a book.

“That’s her.” He says, as I open it. Inside are newspaper clippings and photographs, all of a pretty blonde with striking eyes. They gaze out at me alluringly, just as Gatsby once described to me.

“Daisy Buchannan.” I read off one of the articles. Gatsby swallows.

“Yes. My Daisy.” He seems lost in his own thoughts for a moment, just a moment, until he seemingly snaps out of it. He whips his head up, meets my gaze and smiles, that wide smile of his plastered once again on his face “Fancy a walk, Old Sport? I can show you the pool.”

Involuntarily, my eyes dart over to Jeeves, as though searching for an answer, or approval. But nothing. I’m left alone on this decision, and I can’t say no.

“Oh, Rather.”

He calls his butler over, who brings a jacket and cane. Jeeves brings mine over and helps me into the former. As he does so, I think I feel his hand press against the small of my back, almost reassuringly. Perhaps it was just a slip of the hand. Perhaps he didn’t mean to. But I was sure I felt it. More sure than I was sure of many other things. So as Gatsby leads me out the door, I peer back, and sure enough, Jeeves is watching us. We lock eyes for a moment. I try to read something in them, but fail.  

You know what? I’ve never felt right without Jeeves by my side, I think fondly. Whenever I’ve had to go somewhere without him, or he’s had personal matters that draws him away, I’ve been something of a helpless wreak. I don’t feel much better now, despite knowing he’s only in a house, merely a stone’s throw from the small grounds Gatsby and I are headed to.

We squeeze ourselves through a grand old gate, which looks as though it was once painted gold, but has since taken on a pinkish hue from rust. As we clamber through, flecks of the said paint catches on our trousers and sleeves. On the other side, we find ourselves on a cobbled path, which runs through patches of greenery all the way up to a wooded area up ahead. There’s lamps lining the path, most of which are lit. It’s quite a romantic setting to say the least. Yes, I’m sure if I’d brought a character like Madeline Basset up here, I’d find myself quite quickly engaged to her.

“Old Sport.”

I jump at the sound of Gatsby’s voice. I half wasn’t expecting it. What I thought we’d be doing out here, I don’t know.

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I really am grateful to you and Jeeves. I hope I can show Daisy that I… I hope we can be together. But I have to confess something to you.”

He also doesn’t seem to notice every time I flinch when, out the corner of my eyes, I see his cane catching the light. It doesn’t look like a cane when it does that.

“By all means!” I say, quite hastily, feeling my fingers cross by my side.

“I don’t think I’ll be staying here very long.” He sighs, “I’m thinking of buying that place in Long Island and moving there.”

Though this wasn’t news to me, it almost hits me as though it is. Jeeves had let me believe that this man was purposefully lying to me, and would hide a matter like this from me. But hearing it from his mouth, honestly, I am inclined to believe it. Perhaps after Jeeves gave him the idea of how to get the girl of his dreams, he’d decided to leave his studies behind to get her. Maybe this was a recent decision he’d made. Suddenly, everything he said felt real to me. Jeeves had worried me for nothing.

Relaxing a little, I pat Gatsby on the back and smiled.

“You’ll get her. Jeeves is never wrong.” I assure him.

His eyes shone in the low light, “You think so?”

“I think so.”

“Bertie…”

He stops walking just shy of the wooded area and turns towards me. Complex patterns of shadows of the trees’ branches criss-cross over the ground and across his face. But his smile shines through. It’s a little weaker this time, or a there’s a glint of vulnerability in his eyes as he regards me. I smile back, encouragingly.

“Yes?”

“I really cannot find words to thank you.”

I knew that must mean something. I’ve known Gatsby a total of two days, and one thing I felt I could safely say about him is that he had words for everything. He seemed to choose his words with care, and to know exactly what to say. I envied him in that. Often Jeeves would have to remind me of words, or the correct word to explain what I mean.

“There’s no need.” I insist. “It’s like I said, we’ve only given you an idea. I say Jeeves is never wrong, but there are any number of things that could go wrong. Wrong time and place, that’s usually what happens to me. Or I do something and it messes the whole dashed plan up. There was this one time Old Bingo was chasing after a girl, so I-”

“Have you ever been in love?”

I was probably drivelling like anything, so I was half glad he cut me off. But that question? Had yours truly ever desired a woman so greatly…? Well, I had desired women before, but loved them? It was just… a strange one to bring up all of a sudden.

“I’ve been engaged several times.” I say, “Almost married too. Bobby Wickham; I asked her to marry me twice, I think. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

“But you’ve never loved anyone?”

“I don’t know about that.”

I motion to continue walking, but Gatsby stays where he is. He’s not even looking at me. He gazes down at the path, a glossy look in his eyes. The smile on his lips has faded some.

So I hurry to retract that statement.

“There’s never really been a girl for me yet. But I do love. I love my chums. Tuppy, Bingo, the lot of them.”

Gatsby lifts his head, his brow knotted a bit.

“And Stiffy, she’s a catch really. Engaged to old Stinker Pinker. I’m always trying to help those two. And Madeline Basset. She might be a few sandwiches sort of a whatsit, but… well, I guess all the girls in my life have found men they prefer over me. And that’s understandable. Stinker’s a good egg, so is Gussy. Tuppy’ll find someone soon enough, and make them happy, provided she’s happy with a steak and kidney pie. Or he’ll marry my cousin Angela.” I’m rambling again. This time, it takes a while for him to stop me, and when he does, it’s by grasping my arm, firmly, but fondly. There’s a wild, desperate expression on his face, emphasised by the low light.

I suddenly get that pang of panic back, the same that had me on edge when I’d first come out here with him. There is something unsettling about this man, something that I hadn’t noticed until Jeeves pointed it out to me. I think it’s partly how comfortable he has been with me. I mean, he’s made me believe him, made me think he’s a good man, and he might be, he might not be a bad person, but I can’t help feeling a little bit taken aback, or wanting to take several steps back.

I smile as casually as possible.

“But you’re lucky!” I say, “Finding someone to love the way you do. Ah yes. As Jeeves has said to me before, ‘love is-’”

“Perhaps I should rephrase my question, Old Sport.” He cuts me off. His voice is suddenly breathy and quiet. He’s gone white as a sheet, his skin reflecting the lamp light like glass reflecting a fire, “Have you loved anyone? A woman… a man…”

“What are you…?”

He cuts in once more.

“I mean no disrespect, but given what you just said…”

“You think I’m…”

He seems to be nearing me. I try to back off, but every step I take, he tightens his grip on me. Not to keep me close, not very forcefully. Just firmly.

“I understand it.” He says, desperately, “I do. I always thought… Daisy has always been the one for me, but-”

“I- I don’t understand…”

“I’m worrying you.” He laughs lightly, standing up straighter, “I’m sorry, Old Sport. I just thought we might be men of the same… calibre.”

“I thought the same thing.” I say optimistically, “When we were at lunch, I couldn’t help thinking, ‘that Gatsby fellow. Ah yes, a man after my own fashion.’”

“You did?”

“We’ve led similar lives, have we not?”

He chuckles again. I notice that his hand hasn’t moved from my wrist. His touch is just a little looser.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Oh come now, Old Thing. I get your posish, it’s a hard one. You’re probably just missing Daisy, what?”

“Bertie.” He says fondly, “You’re a kind chap, aren’t you?”

I feel my cheeks flush, even in the cold of the evening. The sun has now all but set and the street lamps burn red.

“No really. You hardly know me, and you’ve helped me so much. Do you do this for all your friends?”

“I would.”

“I really don’t understand why you’ve never found a girl for you. I think it’s you. You can’t pick one. You’re too sweet not to have girls chasing you all over the place.”

I’m about to say something to the contrary, when Gatsby brings up his free hand and sweeps a stray lock of my hair away from my forehead.

Least to say, I’m a little taken back, but I hardly have a moment to consider it. A voice calls at us. Well, at me. A familiar one.

“Mr Wooster!”

Hurriedly, Gatsby lets go of me and turns his back. I can hardly keep track of what’s going on. I look between the figure hurrying down the path, and the frame of the man by my side, which has become little more than a faceless silhouette.

“Mr Wooster!”


	8. 4.5: Jeeves rushes in

 

“Ah, Jeeves!” My good man comes into sight. It’s he who legs it down the path, calling my name. Least to say, I’m dashed glad to see him. His presence is always calming, and if there has ever been one moment when I could do with some calming down, now seems more than apt. “Is dinner ready?” I say, light-heartedly, “I’m positively famished.”

The only problem is, he hardly seems calm himself. The expression on his face can only be described as thunderous, his walk full also of purpose once he slows down to that gait. I notice the look he gives Gatsby, or Gatsby’s back. Take me on my word; it’s not a friendly one. It’s unlike any other I’ve seen him give anyone. And I’ve known of a few people Jeeves has been adverse to. That young choir boy, for example, the one who’d made a certain comment about his appearance. I can’t imagine what the boy must’ve said, because Jeeves is hardly a bad-looking chap, far from it in my eyes, and yet it bothered him enough to attempt clipping the boy around the ear. And even then, when relaying the occurrence to me afterwards, he couldn’t muster an expression that could be described any worse than mildly miffed.

That is what has me so put out by Jeeves’ manner of late. I mean to say, usually I know what he thinks of a chappie, but his impression is often kept to himself while around said person. I mean, if I was playing host to a fellow of mine that he wasn’t totally fond of, the fellow wouldn’t be able to tell, nor I lest I already knew.

Here, he looks, dare I say it, angry and for the life of me I don’t know why.

“Mr Gatsby,” He spoke dismissively, “I believe Mr Hicks was looking for you. The telephone was ringing.”

Almost immediately, the silhouette by my side springs to life. He pivots stiffly on his heels, his new-looking shoes making an awful grating sound on the pebbles. He looks up at me and runs his fingers through the flop of fair hair falling over his forehead. He attempts to smile, but it falters. His eyes blink rapidly.

“See you at dinner, Old Sport.” He sort of chuckles, “I won’t be long.”

“Oh, um, right ho.” I say cheerfully, but I doubt he hears. He does look back for a moment, to see me waving him off, but looks away a second later.

He doesn’t even look at Jeeves.

I regard the man. He seems so very different to me, very different from the blurry, polite figure who helped me hobble back home boat race night. Different from the confident, friendly character who’d sat with me at lunch. Different from the poor, love-sick blighter who’d invited me to dinner and thanked me again and again for doing hardly anything.

The man that I watch now does not walk with a flamboyant, brash, American stride. He did not talk with the careful, choice words and eloquence I’d come to recognise. He was not all smiles. His hands are thrust into his pockets, his head sunken towards his shoulders, as though he were a hunchback. He’d looked as pale as a pearl. He moved hastily and rigidly and disappeared into the darkness.

“Rummy thing, eh, Jeeves?”

I get no reply. Talk about rummy. I cast my gaze on him, and find him head bowed, eyes apologetic, hands held loosely behind his back. I cock my own head to one side.

“Jeeves?”

“That is not the word I would use, as you are aware, I am sure, Sir.” He utters, half answering my last question. He still fails to look at me.

“Well, what word would you use, old thing? And don’t pull that ‘I couldn’t possibly pass judgement on any of your chums’ nonsense.” I try to imitate his cadence, but decide better of it halfway through the sentence. Something tells me this isn’t the time for a whatsit that could be construed as mocking, or a joke.

Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to take it as such. He whips his head up, and through gritted teeth snaps, “I would gladly pass judgement on him, if you so wish, Sir.”

I’m a little taken back.

It’s also pretty cold out here now. I tuck my hands under my arms.

“So what was all that about-”

“I was attempting to restrain myself.”

“He really must have said something to upset you.” I say, “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“No, Sir.” He practically whispers, “I would like you to know that I do not plan to make a habit of acting this way.”

“I don’t mind about that.” I chuckle fondly, removing one hand to tap him lightly on the shoulder. He almost shies away from the touch. For a man who touches me every day to dress me, to assist me, to shave me and all that, I cannot believe that he really is so uncomfortable in having me pat him ever so briefly. After all, I’m sure I’ve done it before. When Bingo and that Miss Rowbotham and her merry gang, I slapped my manservant on the back and called him my chum. Surely that would upset his sensibilities more than a gently assuring pat. “I’d rather know what has you so dashed… ‘not you.’ What did Mr Gatsby do?”

His mouth opens once ajar, and closes again, I’m sure as he’s trying to find the words to explain to me what is going on. It doesn’t seem easy for him.

“What say we take a seat?” I suggest, “There’s a bench back up the path. I’m sure Mr Gatsby won’t mind too much.”


	9. 5: The Problem with Mr Gatsby

It isn’t much warmer sitting down, I’ve got to say. How Jeeves is not shivering right now is beyond me. I cross both my arms over my chest and grasp either side of my jacket, pulling it further around me. The only sounds to fill the space between us is the creaking, crackling and whispering of nature on a night like this, and the chattering of my teeth, which I can’t stop, no matter how hard I try.

But I’ve got to say, I’m happier sitting out here, frozen to the bone, than I would be venturing inside. If there weren’t any other reasons for my reluctance to ankle after Gatsby and warm myself, it is worth bearing the cold to find out what’s has my Valet all a twitter.

As composed as I can manage, I sort of turn to him and give him a quivering, but nonetheless encouraging grin. He sits as rigidly and posed as usual, but I can tell, he’s still not himself. When he meets my gaze, he’s lost that stiff upper lip we English are so well known for. You know, that silent… thingness and so forth.

“Come on, old thing,” I say to break the ice. It doesn’t help that my breath comes out practically in icicles, “I’m sure I’ve said to you before that you can tell me anything. After all, I tell you things all the time. Things about this and that. Things that probably bore you to death, what? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re not listening half the time.”

I say the latter with a slight, fond chuckle, but Jeeves is quick to cut it off.

“I always listen.” He insists, and though it may seem as though he could’ve been quite defensive, it was instead said fondly, like something a chum might say to ensure you knew… oh I don’t know, that he is always there for you. And there can be no better chum than one that’s willing to be there for you regardless.

“Well…” I stammer, “that is… that is to say, that’s comforting to know. Don’t you find that comforting? To know that I’m listening. Because I am. I know I’m your employer and all, but you must know that I value you more than as my employee. Surely I’ve told you _that_ before.”

Jeeves blinks. I mean, that’s what we all do. It would hardly be a noticeable thing, if it was not. But I’ve looked into the face of my valet enough to know what to take note of and what not to, and this blink was one of the former. He also swallows before he talks.

“I believe you may have said something along those lines, Sir.”

“So, can’t you tell me what’s been going on? What is it about Gatsby?”

It takes him a moment before he starts speaking, and when he does, he does so slowly.

“Already I felt wary of the man after hearing the events of the Boat Race evening, merely because you did not seem sure of him. Nevertheless, you were quite content in accompanying him to a luncheon, and I saw no harm in it, as you would be in a familiar place, surrounded by other friends. I also wished not to pass judgment on a man I had never met.”

“But meeting him didn’t help.” I point out. He shakes his head.

“Regrettably, not.”

I couldn’t quite understand that. I may not have been entirely ‘there’ during my first meeting with the man, but he had certainly made an impression on me. And if not that time, then the next. I thought he was quite something, quite intriguing.

“I thought he was dashed… oh what’s the word I’m looking for? Charismatic?”

Jeeves pursed his lips at that, in distain I think.

“You didn’t think so?”

“He certainly seemed a noticeable gentleman, in that pink suit.”

I have to stifle a laugh. Oh dear Jeeves. The man treated poor fashion choices as if they were criminal offenses, reasons not to trust good, upstanding men. But I quelled the urge to reprimand him for that judgement, as that surely could not be all that turned him from Gatsby.

I managed to make some agreeing sound, “A bit too flashy, eh?”

“Sir,” He says calmly, “It was not just that. You’ll have to forgive the seeming triviality,  but he did assist you with your jacket.”

He did? I hardly remember him doing so. But I nod all the same, hoping for an explanation.

“It is the familiarity of a man you met only the night before. And…”

“And the fact that he usurped your job?” I suggest, still not quite following. It must be by some strange luck that I was, in fact, quite right in my assumption. Jeeves nods, almost guiltily, his eyes falling to his lap.

“I cannot explain it.” He utters. Well, if he doesn’t even understand it, how do I expect to. I cock my head to the side and tap my man on the shoulder.

“It’s all right, Jeeves. We can’t explain why we act, at times. I won’t hold it against you. I just can’t believe anyone could set your nose out of joint quite so much. Even if the chap is wearing a pink suit.”

“It was not just the pink suit.” He repeats. I place my hand again on his shoulder, and smile, hoping it comes off less as an amused grin and more of an understanding one.

“I know.” I say, but he cuts me off.

“Nor was it just the jacket.”

“There’s more, old thing?”

He nods. It takes him a while once again before he can organise his thoughts. And this time, he really can’t meet my gaze.

“Sir, I feel I cannot explain to you why why these matters had an extensive effect on me without… upsetting certain sensibilities, perhaps of us both. So, if it is all the same to you, I’d rather not go into much detail.”

“All right.” I reply. By now, I don’t care about the ins and outs. I’ll take whatever he’s willing to give me, be it only the base explanation, or the most in depth.

He swallows.

“This morning, when Mr Gatsby arrived at your flat unannounced and you remained asleep, he asked if he may wait until you were awoken. It was then that he wished to discuss certain matters with me. Certain matters regarding my employment with you. I doubt he truly meant to insult the way that he did, but he did suggest that perhaps you would be better off married, or having some- to quote him- ‘pretty young girl’ to do the duties that I perform, Sir. He informed me of his belief that it was a waste…” He trails off.

I can’t help asking, “A waste?”

“That you should be unmarried and have a valet ‘like me’ or so he put it, to pander to you, Sir. I did not like that suggestion.”

I see the flame in his eyes as he speaks. He is not lying when he says he doesn’t like that. And I don’t like it much either. Seems unbecoming of a man like Gatsby.

My brow knots.

“Yes, well I don’t think that needs much explanations.” I tell my man, “Seems too dashed familiar to pass judgments on me, and on you, Jeeves. I understand.”

Jeeves shakes his head solemnly, “I do not think you can understand it in its entirety, Sir. There was a tone to his voice when he spoke. A playfulness. If he were a woman, I would hazard to say it was flirtatious.”

“Flirtatious?” I repeat.

I think we’ve gone a little further than Jeeves would’ve wanted. He did say he’d rather not explain things, but I don’t think he can help himself. He seems as though he’s skirting around what he really wants to say. Usually, he’ll not hold off on me for such a time. I mean, if I were to tell him, ‘go on Jeeves, I want to know what you’re really thinking’ he’ll tell me. Now, it feels as though he is still withholding something, something that he actually would like to say.

And I don’t know what cue to give him, what stage for him to take so that he feels he can.

“It seemed to me that he did not mean to insult me, my job or your lack of a partner, but to complement you.”

My mind falters for a moment.

“You think… that maybe…” It’s a dashed touchy subject this. I’m fearful to say it, in case it was not what Jeeves meant, and I really upset him, or it is what he meant, and that meant Gatsby… “he may’ve wanted to be that ‘pretty young girl’ who took over your duties?” My voice is barely above a whisper.

To my surprise, though I’m sure I would’ve been surprised either way, he nods.

“You don’t think he’s… he has slightly abnormal romantic preferences, do you?” I stammer. Jeeves, who had been fixated on his lap, suddenly looks up and pushes himself from the bench. He walks away from it, towards the house, and I panic. Well, I still would rather not go in there, and I know he asked me not to pry, but I am now curious. I jolt up too and join him, attempting to get in front of him so that he might stop.

He does. He gives me a weak look and opens his mouth.

The voice that comes out is hardly that of my valet. It’s almost looking to me for advice, for all the things I go to it for.

“Do you truly think that such preferences are all that abnormal?” He asks.

“Oh, well, I don’t know. I’ve never been that well versed in love. Surely you know more than I do.” I chuckle.

I am not lying. Such things as these, though I know are taboo, but I’ve never really thought about it. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in my own experiences with love, and the experiences I get second hand while I’m thrust into my friends’ love lives, it is that we cannot help who we fall in love with. I believe that can apply here too.

In a way, I can understand how women find men attractive. Take Jeeves for instance. He is well-built, strong, yet careful and precise. He looks as though he could swing quite a substantial biff at someone if he wanted to, and yet is skilled in the art of being delicate, with that feather touch of his. He has a strong-looking face too, but subtle expressions that have become more and more familiar to me as our time together has gone on. Some instil confidence and excitement in me, some encouragement. He is also a man who can listen, a man with great patience and intelligence that anyone can admire, and envy. He is a true catch. More so than me, I’m sure.

“I do not think so, Sir.” Jeeves says, snapping me out of my thoughts. I can’t even remember what I had just said to elicit that response. It takes some thinking.

“Look here,” I say, “I think love is abnormal.” I chuckle, “I don’t know how or who we’re meant to love.”

“So if a man were to love a man?”

I shrug, “So be it.”

“And I am right in my assumptions that you think nothing of love between different social classes?”

“I’m sure I’ve told you that before. If a man wants to marry a waitress, I’m all for it.”

“You have, Sir. But, what do you think of a person perhaps developing feelings for their employers?”

“Well, you know well that that’s what happened to Bingo’s uncle, isn’t it? He proposed to his cook. She accepted.”

“Sir.” Jeeves says as I speak my last. It hushes me. I beam at him. At the very least, he seems able to look me in the eye now. “I think, knowing that, I can tell you the reason for my dislike of Mr Gatsby. I envied him.”

“You did?”

“I envied his closeness to you, which was without pretence. At least, not that of being your valet, or employee. And I also felt a certain… possessiveness- there is no better way to put it- over you.”

Suddenly, it hits me. What he’s been talking about, what we’ve been discussing. I suddenly realise that he may’ve been gauging my views on such matters to see what he could tell me, what I’d be comfortable with.

“Jeeves!” I can hardly restrain myself. I reach out and grasp his arm, similarly to the way in which Gatsby had done so to me. “Are you saying you have feelings for me?”

It’s almost as though I’m suddenly hit with the knowledge that I too have feelings for him. By Jove! There are things I didn’t even know about myself, things that only Jeeves can pry out of me. I mean, Good Lord, I knew he knew me better than I know myself, but I never thought it would be to this extent.

I’m sure I see the corner of his lips turn upwards.

“You are comfortable with that fact, Sir?”

“Comfortable?” I laugh, “Jeeves, I… You really are a marvel.”

“Indeed, Sir?” He is definitely smiling himself now, but trying to hide it. I draw him a little closer to me, just close enough that, if I were to sway forward, we’d touch, our whole bodies would flush against one another. And I keep hold of his hand. It’s warm, unlike mine. I’m still dashed cold, but I really don’t care.

“You just are.” I tell him.

“Thank you, Sir.”

For a moment, we stay like that, close together, shrouded in shadows, surrounded by one of the most romantic scenery and mood lighting I’ve ever set eyes on. I feel as though I should put my head on Jeeves’ shoulder and tell him how wonderful he is, but decide against it. I decide instead I should like to have a cigarette, and I offer him one too. He lights them both up for me and we turn towards Gatsby’s place.

“I don’t know if I can face dinner now.” I say.

“I doubt Mr Gatsby will be all that offended if you decide against dining with him tonight. I did not fabricate the telephone call. I was lead to believe it was one of great importance and secrecy. Mr Hicks did not wish to tell me who was calling. He wanted to find Mr Gatsby himself, but I insisted.”

“So you think he’ll be glad if we biff off somewhere else for dinner, what?”

“I should imagine so, Sir.”

“Oh, and Jeeves, can I ask you a question?”

“By all means, Sir.”

“Did you touch my back earlier? When you were putting on my jacket?”

I watch him take a drag of his cigarette before bowing his head, a shameless smile widening his lips.

“I did, Sir.”

“For any reason?” I ask.

“In all honesty, Sir, I believe it was a subconscious act. I have noticed the frequency of such things increasing of late.”

“Well,” I say with a devilish smile, “Feel free to do that any time. I quite liked it.”


	10. 5.5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra chapter!

Sun streams under the curtains covering the window in my bedroom, bringing me gently from my slumber. My eyes flutter open, and almost instantly, I smile.

I’ve never been much of an early bird. Never greeted the morning happily. I used to loath getting up at all early. But that’s all changed. I’ve learned to cherish the hours of dawn, the sunrise, the start of a new day. I like waking up early, because there’s something dashed welcoming waiting for me.

Forget friends knocking at my door with problems and schemes and demands, Aunts with females to court or favours to complete, other family members- like my cousins- wanting to be taken out to lunch or dinner. No matter what the day might bring, I still look forward to getting it underway, because it starts like this.

I hear my bedroom door sweep open. A familiar figure stands in the door way, a tea in each hand and a newspaper under their arm. Jeeves, clad in a dressing gown, a button down pyjama shirt and matching bottoms, shimmers in and affords me a smile.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Good morning, Jeeves.”

I push my two pillows up against the headboard and sit up to receive my tea. Jeeves, walking around to his side of the bed, hands it to me before doing the same thing to his pillows. The bed is almost awaiting his return. The blankets are peeled back, the sheets still creased and crumpled in the shape of his body. Setting down his own tea on his bedside table and tossing the newspaper between us, he slides back into place and covers himself over.

Mornings are often like this. Jeeves still manages to wake up earlier than me, and slip out without causing a stir, but I wake up earlier than I used to, just to spend this time with him. He always comes back in, usually with something to drink, and he reads, or we sit together and talk. Sometimes I lay my head on his shoulder and he winds an arm around my waist, if I’m in need of a bit of comforting. Or if we’re really tired, we shuffle back down beneath the blankets, wrap one another up in an embrace and catch a few more minutes of rest before we think about breakfast.

He even eats breakfast with me. If you think we did everything together already, since we let our feelings towards one another be known, we really do _everything_ together. And it’s so easy. It was never awkward or unusual. We fell into this sort of routine as easily as we had when we first met.

And it’s been a long time since I’ve really thought of it, but this is all thanks to that old fellow I met that Boat Race night. Strange- and almost poetic- that my life should change on two separate Boat Race nights. I mean, the first was when I met Jeeves. The other was the day I met… oh what’s his name? It’s really has been so long that I’ve forgotten.

“I say, Jeeves,”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Who was that chap I met on Boat Race night? The American?”

“Mr Gatsby, Sir?”

That’s it. Jay Gatsby. It’s been an age since I heard that name. Well, that’s who I met, and not three days later, Jeeves had told me he had feelings for me. If I hadn’t have got entangled with that strange, but charming character, I never would’ve gotten entangled, so to speak, with Jeeves. I probably never would’ve paid much attention to love, despite the fact that I was sitting by it every day. I hate to think what might have become of me, or Jeeves. I worry that, if my feelings hadn’t been realised for the man, he might have left me. Then where would I have been? In the soup, I bet.

I am so very glad to have him. And all thanks to some man I knew for a few days, who I never heard of again.

“Jeeves?”

My man politely closes the book he has balanced on his lap, “Yes, Sir?”

Honestly, I doubt he gets much reading done while I’m next to him. Unless I’m otherwise occupied by a particularly gripping headline in the papers or scarfing down breakfast, I usually interrupt him one way or another. I never mean to, and though he doesn’t seem to mind, I always feel just a little bit guilty.

Not that it stops me, however.

“Do you ever wonder what happened to Gatsby?”

“Sir?”

“Gatsby, the fellow…”

“I know who you mean, Sir, but I thought I told you.”

“Told me?” Neither I nor Jeeves had mentioned the man in what feels like years. I never did because Jeeves didn’t like him. I assume Jeeves never did for the same reason. And after a while, the man’s memory faded from our mind. I mean, you could forgive me. I had other things to think about. I was a little preoccupied with my relationship with Jeeves to consider much else.

And it wasn’t as if I cared much for a man that had insulted Jeeves, upset and distressed him. Even if his memory had crossed my mind, I would’ve dismissed it. But in hearing there was news of him that Jeeves meant to tell me, I couldn’t say I wasn’t curious.

Especially seeing Jeeves’ solemn, and slightly apologetic expression.

“I meant to inform you that he was, unfortunately, killed.”

“Killed?” I gasp. Jeeves nods slowly.

“Information is scarce, but there was something of a scandal that depleted rather quickly. He had moved back to Long Island and lived grandly there until he was found…” He trails off.

“Good Lord!”

“I am sorry, Sir.”

I am not sure how to feel. Like I said, I hardly knew the man. But I feel a pang of something, a twinge in my stomach. I stare down at the tea I hold in my lap.

“Good Lord.” I sigh.

“Sir?”

Killed? Who would’ve wanted to kill him? I know Jeeves wasn’t a fan, and I know he was a little more opinionated about matters than I would’ve liked, but Good Lord! Killed?

I suddenly feel a hand cover mine.

“Bertram.”

Jeeves rarely uses my name. I don’t mind it, whether he calls me Sir, or Bertram, or Bertie if he wishes. But he reserves the use of my name for certain occasions. Like to soften me up when he wants to get his way. Or in our more intimate moments.

I lift my head and meet his gaze.

“I truly am sorry.”

“I hardly knew him.” I say, though I’m not sure what I mean by it.

Jeeves, on the other hand, seems to understand perfectly.

“But you knew him nonetheless.”

“I know what he said about you, Jeeves, but I can’t help thinking we owe him a lot.”

“I do not deny that, Sir.” He squeezes my hand, comfortingly, “I too felt quite taken aback at the news.”

“When did you hear it?” I whisper.

“It could not have been any earlier than last week. I do not recall why I did not relay that information…”

“Was there a funeral?”

Jeeves shakes his head, “I did not hear of one.”

“Good Lord.”

Overcome with a deep feeling that I cannot describe, I hold Jeeves’ hand tighter. But that is not enough. Poor old Gatsby, we truly owe him so much, and to think he never knew. He never knew that we did value him, that we were glad to meet him. Despite everything, we regret nothing that occurred, only what didn’t occur.

After Jeeves and I returned from our short stroll outside Gatsby’s place the last night we set eyes on him, we made a quick excuse and hurried back home. Granted, just as Jeeves had anticipated, the man didn’t put up much of a fight to keep us there, but I am now guilt ridden. If only I’d got in contact with him again, told him that he was a friend, that I’d be sorry to see him leave the country. I know why I didn’t, why I kept away from him, but I cannot help thinking ‘what if.’

Now, I shuffle closer to Jeeves and rest my head on his shoulder. He takes my tea out of my hands, places it on the bedside table, and pushes his book off his lap. He then turns towards me and wraps me up in an embrace.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, old chap.” I tell him.

I feel his lips press against my forehead, before they open and say, “I do not know what I’d do without you either, Sir.”


End file.
